


Comfort and Joy

by Larkin



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-16
Updated: 2008-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larkin/pseuds/Larkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth and Laurie share a private moment on Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort and Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Lordess Renegade for giving me this wonderful challenge. At first I balked at the idea of writing a Beth story -- she's so pure and good, how can you make her interesting? But I was determined to stick to the canon, so I threw myself into the exercise, re-reading the novel and discovering wonderful little quirks that I had never noticed before. I came to the part where Jo mistakenly believes that Beth is secretly in love with Laurie, when in fact Beth's secret is that she knows she's going to die -- then this story basically wrote itself. I've never done Yuletide before, but I had such a wonderful time, I already can't wait for next year. I hope you like it, Lordess Renegade!
> 
> Written for lordess renegade

 

 

It was that queer flickering in-between hour, after all the Christmas celebrations have ended and before the drudgery of the next day has begun. The floor was strewn with ribbons and scraps of parcel-paper, which had pleased Daisy and Demi much more than the trinkets contained within, and which the twins had torn and tossed to their hearts' delight until even Meg was laughing too hard to scold. The house seemed to hold the echoes of their shrieks, though they had been put to bed hours before and now slept the fairy-tale sleep of healthy, well-fed children. A few greasy dishes were still scattered about the house, overlooked at the time of washing-up; and though not a crumb remained of the Christmas feast, the spicy aromas of roast turkey and plum pudding still hung in the air. The fireplace, which earlier in the day had roared and crackled with sparking heat, its leaping flames casting a gay light that well outshone the feeble winter sun, now held but a humble mound of embers, whose warmth could be detected only by an outstretched palm.

And there was no soul awake in the house to reach out and feel it -- indeed, no creak or tiptoe of movement anywhere -- except for Beth, who sat alone at her little piano, wrapped in a worn shawl, feeling as cold and small and alone as a body can feel.

It had been hard for Beth, this Christmas. She had tried to be merry and gay -- had looked after the twins, eaten her share of turkey, sung carols with the others and accompanied them on the piano as she did every year -- but it was an awful strain to keep the mask on for so long, and for the first time in her life, she had longed all the while for the day to be over. Now that it had ended, though, she had nothing to distract her from her pain, her sorrow, and her creeping dark thoughts, which made her shiver against the hard wood of the piano bench.

Her forehead was hot, and she leaned her head against the cool polished wood of the piano as she ran her fingers softly over the keys. Idly, she played the melody of "Good King Wenceslas" with one finger -- she could bear no more exertion than that. She plinked the yellowing keys one at a time, her shaking finger falling like a raindrop on each one, and sang along in a quavering voice.

" _Good King Wenceslas looked out_

_On the feast of Stephen_

_When the snow lay round about_

_Deep and crisp and even_

_Brightly shone the moon that night_

_Though the frost was cruel_..."

Suddenly there was a tap at the window, and Beth whirled around in a dreadful fright, drawing her shawl around her. There was a face behind the frosty glass, and Beth might really have fainted away if she hadn't right then recognized the Russian-style fur cap atop the head.

"Laurie!" she gasped. She began to add, "What are you doing here?" -- but stopped, feeling foolish, for of course he couldn't hear her through the glass. He gestured for her to come around and let him through the door.

"You frightened me, Laurie!" she reproached him as she opened the door, but she couldn't be too cross, for he looked so funny in his tall fur hat, and the twinkle in his eyes never failed to lift her spirits. She giggled through chattering teeth.

"Couldn't sleep," said Laurie, stamping his feet to shake the snow off his boots. "I went for a walk and saw the light in your window, and when I saw that it was you, I realized I'd forgotten to give you your present."

"Why, of course you didn't forget," said Beth in surprise as she hung his coat and hat. "You gave me that lovely Brahms. I can hardly wait to start practicing it to-morrow."

"Ah, but I've there's something else," said Laurie. "I confess, I bought it for myself back in college -- but then I knew I'd be greedy to eat it myself, when it was little Beth who ought to be fattened up." With a flourish, he produced a plain white box tied with string.

"Shall I open it now?"

"It would be an honor," said Laurie, and Beth tried not to let her fingers tremble as she unknotted the string. But she forgot how ill she felt as soon as she saw what was in the box: maple candy, molded to the shapes of stars, leaves, and Valentine hearts.

"Thank you!" breathed Beth, beaming up at Laurie. Then, remembering her manners: "Would you care for the first piece?"

That was how Beth and Laurie found themselves in the parlor in the middle of the night, Beth licking the buttery sweet off her fingers as she tried to muffle her giggles at Laurie's _sotto voce_ chatter. He regaled her with tales of his college pranks, which as he described them were as elaborately orchestrated and executed as Napoleon's maneuvers and twice as splendid. Since time immemorial, men have been unfortunately temped to tell "tall-tales" on the subject of their college days -- but Beth was innocent of this truth, and she listened with awe.

"How I wish Jo were here!" she cried. "I know she'd come up with even more ideas for your next prank."

The twinkle dimmed in Laurie's eyes. "I wish it too," he said quietly.

Beth gazed down at her sticky hands. She spoke softly, but she was not shy to speak the truth to Laurie. "It don't feel like Christmas without Jo," she said. "This was my first Christmas apart from her, and I didn't like it."

"Nor I," said Laurie.

A moment passed, and the two friends stayed silent, each troubled by thought.

Suddenly, Laurie leaped up from his chair. "Come, let's have a carol!" he cried, jolly once more. "Oblige me on the piano, won't you, Beth?"

"We mustn't wake the others," said Beth.

"A quiet carol, then. Do join me, now!" and the look in his eyes was so gay and hopeful that Beth could not resist joining in the fun. She wiped her fingers on her shawl and took her seat on the piano bench.

"Which carol would you like?" she asked.

"Oh, whatever you please," said Laurie. "Any song sounds sweet when it's you playing it."

Beth blushed from the compliment, wriggled her fingers to stretch them, and began to play the first carol that came into her head. Laurie sat beside her on the bench, and the two sang together.

_"God rest ye merry, gentlemen,_

_May nothing you dismay!_

_Remember Christ our savior_

_Was born upon this day_

_To save us all from Satan's power_

_When we had gone astray --_

_O tidings of comfort and joy,_

_Comfort and joy,_

_O tidings of comfort and joy..._ "

As Beth played, her eyes were caught by the reflection in the polished wood of the piano, which served as a perfect looking-glass -- there was Laurie, his mouth open comically wide like an opera tenor's, his face rosy and his eyes bright; and there beside him was little Beth, peaked and pale and drawn, hooded in her shawl like the spirit of Death itself...

And as Beth gazed at this reflection, she felt her limbs and heart grow heavy; she found it hard to breathe, grew dizzy and sick. By the third verse she was aware that she was taking the song at an unnaturally slow pace, and it sounded ghastly to her, positively funereal in her ears. Her eyes grew blurry and wet, and a single tear dripped onto the ivory F key.

Beth hadn't expected Laurie to notice, but in the next instant he had stopped singing, and laid his big warm hands upon hers. The music ceased; Beth's hands had never felt so thin or so cold as they did in Laurie's. "Bethy, dear," he cried softly. "What's the matter?"

Tears flooded Beth's eyes anew, but she shook her head.

"Please tell me, Beth," he urged. "I love you like a sister, you know. It breaks my heart to see you suffer."

Beth squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears away. If she spoke, she knew she would sob -- and worse yet, her secret might come pouring out of her mouth. She refused to tell it, for fear that giving words to it would make it true.

"If I tell you what's troubling me," said Laurie, "would you tell me what's troubling you?"

Beth opened her eyes in surprise. She hadn't known that Laurie was troubled, and concern for him momentarily eclipsed her own pain. "Tell me," she whispered.

Laurie swallowed, looked up at the ceiling, and said in a constricted voice: "I love Jo."

"Of course you do," said Beth. "We all do."

"It's more than that," said Laurie, dazed to have unburdened himself at last. "I want to ask her to marry me. But I'm afraid she'll say no." He looked at Beth, and the question burned fiercely in his eyes.

Beth squeezed his hand. "If you love her," she told him, "then I'm sure she loves you too."

"You think I should ask her, then?"

Beth almost laughed -- the very idea of someone asking her for love advice! But Laurie was too serious for jokes. Beth wished fervently that Jo were here; she would know what to say.

"I suppose," said Beth, "you should be honest with her." As she imagined a wedding, another thought occurred to her, and she spoke carefully. "If you're going to do it," she said, "you should do it...soon." Immediately she was horrified at herself for saying something so morbid.

"Yes," murmured Laurie with a faraway look.

It was a moment before he turned back to Beth and remarked the tears in her eyes. "Now your turn, Beth," he said firmly. "I promise you, you'll feel better if you say it out loud."

"I can't," whispered Beth.

"You can if you try," urged Laurie.

"I _want_ to," cried Beth. "But it will upset everybody, and...I'm frightened, Laurie!"

Laurie looked at the ashen little figure trembling on the bench beside him. Even at eighteen, he thought, she still looked more like one of her dolls than like a woman. Frail, like some kind of apparition, or...

Then it was Laurie who went ashen, and he did something very cowardly. He hung his head and muttered, "If you're going to say what I think you're going to say, then I think I'd rather not hear it."

And Beth wept then, for she knew that Laurie knew. She threw her arms around him like a child, and wept bitter tears, shaking with sobs until her heart might break. "I don't want to die," she cried into his shoulder. "I'm afraid to die! There's so much I haven't done, and so many people I don't want to leave, and I'm not ready, Laurie, I'm not ready! It isn't right!"

Laurie was weeping too. He tried to think of comforting words, words of heaven and peace and castles in the air -- but at this moment they struck him as hollow and false. If anyone could get into the Kingdom of Heaven, Beth could; surely this thought ought to bring Laurie peace of mind, and yet he could do nothing but hold her in his arms and weep with her.

Eventually Beth's tears subsided. She pulled away and fixed her gaze on his, shaky but determined. "You mustn't tell anybody," she said.

Laurie wiped his eyes and opened his mouth to protest.

"I'll tell them myself, when the time is right." Beth was gentle, but seemed newly self-possessed. "But until then, you'll keep my secret safe?"

Laurie almost said, "I'll take it to the grave with me," but changed it just in time to "Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me." He managed a gallant little bow, and the two friends laughed queerly at the strangeness of it all.

"You're right, you know," said Beth, smiling. Her head felt light. "I do feel better, now that I've told."

"I can't say that I do," muttered Laurie sardonically, and Beth took his hand in hers. No further words were needed.

All at once, Beth's face lit up with joy. "O, Laurie," she whispered, "look!" She pointed out the window. Laurie turned around.

It was snowing -- great fat flakes, illuminated by the soft pink light of the encroaching dawn. It was a simple sort of beauty, but the pleasure on Beth's face was so pure and childlike, Laurie wanted to preserve it for as long as he could. He scooped her up in his arms -- her body, he thought, was lighter than a kitten's -- and she gave a tickled shriek as he carried her to the window. Together, they pressed their faces against the glass to watch the dawn blizzard.

"It's like a fairyland," sighed Beth.

"But it's real life," said Laurie.

Beth knew that it was true, and she ached with the beauty of it all. Laurie's arms, the shining piano, the scent of plums in the air, the ribbons on the floor, the sugar on her fingers, the soft white world outside -- this was real life. She could not bear to leave it just yet.

 


End file.
